


Infarction

by mellow_dramatic



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2018-12-31 00:07:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12120276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellow_dramatic/pseuds/mellow_dramatic
Summary: Rick faces the consequences of his excessive drinking...or does he?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi readers. I'm not sure where this is going, if it's going anywhere. I just sat down and started typing, and this is the result, equally inspired by the death of a loved one and the twisted genius of Justin Roiland. Read and let me know what you think, if you want to. Thanks. ✌

The day of Rick’s heart attack started just like any other. 

At 7:30 that morning, Beth, Rick, Morty and Summer were sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast. Since Beth and Jerry’s separation a few months previous, the family continued to assemble at the table by unspoken agreement.

For better or worse, the impending divorce had in one way or another upended all of their lives. Though they didn’t acknowledge it, Rick understood that the daily occurrence of eating together as a family was good for them. In times of upheaval, consistency and stability were vital. Rick hated getting up early - almost as much as he hated Jerry - but he kept up the mundane ritual out of consideration for his daughter and grandchildren.

It was the last Saturday of Summer. The next weekend would mark the beginning of Autumn, and the start of college for the eldest Smith sibling. After sitting down and evaluating the pros and cons of going away to college versus staying home, Summer chose to remain at home while attending classes at the local community college.

There had been a time when Summer’s presence annoyed Rick, which gradually evolved into alternate periods of indifference and affection. Now, it was his granddaughter’s choice of higher education that annoyed him.

“Community college? What the hell are you gonna learn of value at _community college_? I’m the smartest carbon-based humanoid life form in the galaxy! I can teach you _everything_ about _anything_!”

“I know that, Grandpa Rick. Since you first came to live with us, I’ve learned more from you than I have in twelve years of public school. But. . .”

“But?”

“To get a good job, I need to get a college degree. Besides, I’ll save Mom a ton of money by staying home. It’ll be good, you’ll see.”

“Your mother makes more than $100,000 a year, Summer,” Rick scoffed. “ I don’t think we’d have to move to a poorhouse just because of tuition costs. Heck, even if you added room and board and textbook costs, you’d be set. You’re lucky. If my parents hadn’t been so stupid and poor, I might have gone to college.”

“You didn’t go to college, Dad?” Beth’s eyebrows rose so high they seemed to almost detach from her skin, while Summer gaped in astonishment and Morty nonchalantly continued to eat his cereal. Corn pops and OJ again, the same breakfast he’s had every morning since Jerry moved out.

In response to Beth’s question, Rick sighed and rolled his eyes. “No, sweetie, I didn’t go to college. Besides the basic reading, writing, and ‘rithmetic I learned in elementary school, I’m self-taught.” 

To stall any more questions, or maybe just to avoid having to discuss the matter further, Rick reached into his coat pocket for his requisite flask of whiskey. He felt a sense of relief as his fingers closed around the pewter bottle, but when he unscrewed the top and took a swig, a strange numbness came over him.

He froze, and his face turned red as Beth and Summer stared at him. Anybody else would think it was because of embarrassment, but Morty was immediately attuned to the danger. Putting his spoon down, Morty reached over and firmly pressed his index and ring fingers against the pulse in Rick’s neck. The color drained from his face as Rick slumped forward, and his own face landed in his breakfast plate and became smeared with maple syrup.

“MOM!” he screeched, so loudly that his throat hurt. “SUMMER! SOMEBODY CALL 9-1-1!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all of the readers so far! In this chapter I basically eliminated any dialogue. I wanted to focus on Morty's thoughts about what's going on. I'm pretty new to the fandom, so if any of you have any pointers about characterization, etc., please let me know. Thanks again. ✌

The first thought that came to Morty’s mind when he saw the scan was how much Rick’s heart looked like an ass. In particular, the spastic movements of his heart beating looked very similar to how Morty imagined an ass would look if a scantily-clad fat woman were dancing. Morty bit his lip to stop the laughter that threatened to erupt. It wouldn’t be cool to seem like he was laughing when Rick was in such bad shape.

The doctor - a middle-aged Asian man whose name they couldn’t pronounce - frowned solemnly as he updated the family on Rick’s condition. His pulse had been 250 upon admission, his BP 190/125. (He had even flatlined for a few brief, torturous moments, which had brought tears to Beth’s and Summer’s eyes and left Morty howling like a lunatic.)

The doctor pointed to various parts of the scan, using lingo Morty couldn’t even pretend to understand. He watched his mother’s eyes widen as she sucked her lips into a thin, grim line. Whatever it was, it was obviously bad.

The doctor frowned in commiseration and made sympathetic sounds when Beth began to cry. He patted her shoulder and excused himself awkwardly. Morty sat down cross-legged on the floor, folding his arms over his chest as he watched her cry. At some point during the hours of waiting, Summer had gotten hungry and gone to the cafeteria.

He wanted to know what was going on, but afraid at the same time. He waited until Beth’s sobs tapered down to whimpers to timidly ask, “What happened to Grandpa Rick?” It was an unconscious slip, born of hours of fear and worry for a man he thought he basically hated - most of the time.

Beth sniffled and wiped her eyes on her shirtsleeve. She reached down and held Morty’s hand - squeezed it, in fact, to the point that it was painful - as she explained what had happened. Due to decades of alcohol abuse, Rick’s heart had weakened. This, compared with the stress of their interdimensional travels, had culminated in an acute myocardial infarction - a heart attack.

Morty opened his mouth to protest, but seeing his mother’s grief, thought better of it. He and Rick had been on countless interdimensional excursions, all equally perilous. So why was it _now_ that Rick would have a heart attack? Now, when everything was going fine. He and Rick had been getting along well, even better since Jerry left.

Everything was **fine** , wasn’t it? After the bizarre interlude with their toxic selves, Rick had allowed Morty to finish out his freshman year by actually going to school every day. In spite of his frequent absences, Morty had kept up with his homework and maintained a “C” average. He had been promoted to the 10th grade.

Any sense of satisfaction or accomplishment he had felt for passing was quashed by Rick’s current predicament. Rick had never kept secret his opinion that public school was a waste, and he had voiced such opinions so often that Morty began to adopt a similar view. Maybe school wasn’t for ‘smart people,’ he thought- but then, Rick also never hid his opinion that Morty was stupid.

When Morty had brought his final report card home, Rick had uncharacteristically grinned and brushed his knuckles across his head. Then, in true Rick fashion, he had taken credit for the improvement in Morty’s grades. After all, if it hadn’t been for his nearly constant proximity to Rick’s genius, Morty would have languished in failure and mediocrity.

Morty couldn’t reconcile the dissonant feelings of loathing his grandfather in part, and admiring him in another. He looked up to him, not for his genius intellect or because he was cool or a wanted criminal across the galaxy. Mainly, Morty admired Rick because he didn’t give a shit what anyone else thought of him.

At least, it _seemed_ that way. But maybe, if he was completely honest for once, if he revealed to Rick exactly what he thought, and how much he cared...maybe then, it would be enough to save him.


	3. Chapter 3

“You look like hell, Rick.” Morty tried to sound bored and apathetic. In truth, when he saw his grandfather lying in a hospital bed - pale and shaking and hooked up to an IV - he wanted to cry again. Any overt display of emotion was irrational, unreasonable, a sign of weakness. Morty could only hope that Rick hadn’t heard his screaming when his heart briefly stopped beating.

Rick squinted at Morty as if he was having trouble bringing him into focus. “That’s funny, ‘cause I feel like _shit_.” He closed his eyes and groaned. “Feels like I’ve had someone tap dancing on my chest.”

“Y-you had a pretty bad heart attack, Rick. I-it was pretty scary when you just d-dropped at the kitchen table. It was the s-scariest thing I’ve ever seen.” Morty sat down at Rick’s bedside and gave up any pretense of indifference. “H-how are you feeling now?”

“I just told you, dummy.” Rick opened his eyes. He’d intended to say something harsher - _idiot_ or _dumbass_ , maybe - but for all of his efforts to hide it, Morty’s anxiety was palpable. Poor kid.

“How long do I have to be here?” he asked. In times of emotional distress, it was important to keep a person engaged by redirecting them. It wouldn’t do anybody any good if Morty were reduced to a shivering, sniveling mass. “What did the doctor say?”

“Well…” Morty bit his lower lip and fidgeted. “I don’t know. The doctor said some stuff, but I didn’t understand much. A-all I know is, if you k-keep drinking as much as you d-do, you’ll wind up right back here...or in the…”

“Morgue,” Rick quipped. He yawned and scratched his hand. “This shit itches!” he groused. “I must be allergic to the tape. Figures.” “You can c-call the nurse,” Morty said, his voice wavering. “O-or I can g-go g-get one.” His voice broke, and tears seeped out of the corners of his eyes.

Rick watched impassively as Morty covered his face with his hands. His body shook with silent sobs. Rick frowned and patted Morty on the head. He twirled his fingers through his hair. “It’s alright, Morty. It’ll be alright. This is hardly the worst thing that’s happened to me. Remember when that furry shot me in the liver?”

Morty laughed mid-sob, snorting mucus all over his face and hands. “Aw jeez, Rick!” He stumbled to the bathroom. When he didn’t see a towel or toilet paper, he wiped his nose on his shirt sleeve. “Eww!”

“C’mere, Morty.” Rick beckoned, and when Morty came to stand beside the bed, Rick used an edge of the blanket to wipe his nose. “There, that’s better. It’s pretty funny in hindsight, huh?” Rick smirked and rubbed his knuckles across Morty’s scalp. 

“O-ow! Jeez, why’d you do that?” Morty scowled and tried to back away, but Rick grabbed hold of his hair. “Be still!” he growled. “I’m not done yet.” Using more force than was necessary, Rick scrubbed Morty’s face with the blanket. His skin turned pink under the rough push of the fabric, but Morty stood still. 

“There we go,” Rick grunted when he was satisfied. “Now you look presentable, at least. Can’t say the same for the blanket, but that’s not our problem. Housekeeping can see to that.” Unceremoniously, Rick bunched up the blanket and tossed it on the floor by Morty’s feet. “Go away,” he said abruptly. “All this excitement has tired your grandpa out.”

Morty turned around to leave in almost automatic obedience. “Wait!” Rick grabbed his shoulder, which forced him to turn right back around. He stood and looked at Rick expectantly. “Uh…” Rick coughed and chewed his lower lip, for once at a loss for words.

“I have this weird phobia about waking up alone in strange places. _Weird,_ I know - like I said,” he explained when Morty stared at him in open mouthed shock. “So anyway, I want you to stay here with me until I wake up. Or not,” he added when Morty’s mouth remained open. “It’s up to you.”

Morty wasn’t sure which was more shocking: the fact that Rick had openly admitted a weakness, or the fact that he had left a decision up to him. In all the time he had known him, Rick said what was what, and it simply _was_. In light of everything that had happened, his choice was clear.

“Okay, Rick. I’ll stay with you.”


	4. Chapter 4

When she entered the hospital room, Summer struggled to stuff down the feelings of jealousy that came over her. The sight of Grandpa Rick sleeping peacefully, and of her brother sitting idly in the bedside chair, reading a comic book. The sight of the two of them together was sickening. How could they suddenly be so at ease, when more often than not they could barely stand each other?

That was what Grandpa Rick claimed, anyway. She was no different - at least, she wasn’t supposed to be. He had once described her and Morty as nothing more than pains in his ass, but he had also - on more than one occasion - told them he loved them. (Summer could count on one hand how many times, but the family generally frowned upon outward shows of emotion.)

She didn’t doubt that he loved them, in the way he knew how. Summer, usually not one to pay much attention in school, had become fascinated by psychology after the strange incident when her grandfather turned himself into a pickle to avoid family therapy. 

In her abnormal psych class, she was riveted by the segment explaining personality disorders. After studying the subject intently - even keeping daily notes documenting her grandfather’s behavior - Summer concluded that Grandpa Rick had antisocial personality disorder.

Her perspective - based on the year-and-a-half time frame Rick had lived with them, what she had seen and heard and experienced - was that Rick lacked empathy. As brilliant as he was, he simply did not understand other people’s emotions. Whatever he did not understand, he completely discounted. Any attachment he seemed to have with her, or Morty, or their mom, could best be chalked up to their biological connection.

He loved them to the degree that he could manipulate them to do what he wanted. It was no wonder, then, that he cared about Morty more than her. The boy heeded Rick’s every beck and call like a dog - no, Morty was worse than a dog. At least dogs fought back when they were attacked. When Rick struck him on one cheek, Morty just rolled over and offered the other. 

Summer scoffed and turned away from the door to leave - and crashed right into her mother. “WHOA!” she yelped as she rubbed her arm. “Mom, watch where you’re going!” _“Me?”_ Beth’s face turned red in frustration. 

“Okay, I sure will. _I’ll_ watch where _I’m_ going from now on. God forbid anybody else do the same.” Summer saw her mother’s teary, bloodshot eyes and realized, as if for the first time, the extent of the hold that Rick had over her. He was her father, for Christ’s sake.

“Grandpa Rick’s sleeping,” she said solemnly. “And Morty’s in there, too.” Something in her tone betrayed the hurt she felt. Beth wrapped her arms around Summer in a suffocating hug. “Oh, sweetie,” she murmured as she kissed Summer’s forehead.

“You know your grandpa loves you, in his way. Just like you know that he favors Morty. You want to know why? For the same reason that I favor you: we’re so much alike that sometimes you seem more like my clone than my child.”

“Wait,” Summer stammered. “What you’re telling me is that my C-average 15-year-old brother is more like our evil genius grandfather than I am? Me, who graduated salutatorian of my class, who eventually wants to go to medical school to study psychiatry? What. The. Fuck.”

Briefly, Beth was angry. She stepped back from Summer and struggled to contain the urge to slap her daughter across the face. But - as she was so fond of pointing out - she was an adult now. It wouldn’t do any good for Beth to be arrested on charges of assault. At this point, she wouldn't put it past Summer to be that petty. Emotions were by their very nature unreasonable, and in that moment, both of them were emotionally wrecked. The most productive thing they could do now was regroup and recharge. "Come on, honey," Beth said suddenly, gently tugging Summer's arm. "Let's go to the mall for a little bit."


	5. Chapter 5

When he woke Rick had a throbbing headache and decided he’d had enough. He gingerly raised himself in the bed and rubbed his temples. Since he was drunk most of the time, and routinely suffered moderate pain from his many hangovers, headaches were nothing new to him, but this was **bad**.

Rick squeezed his eyes shut, which lessened the pain a smidgen. However, he was still in significant pain. He groaned and cursed vehemently until he woke up Morty. 

“Are you alright, Rick?” the teen asked hoarsely as he rubbed his eyes. “D-do you want me to call the nurse?”

“No Morty,” Rick answered. “What I want you to do is help me get the fuck out of here.” 

“Wh-what?” Morty gasped and fidgeted, which caused his comic book to fall to the floor with a soft thump.

Rick sighed and placed a hand on his grandson’s shoulder. In all the time they had been together, after everything they had seen, Rick had hoped that Morty would have come to figure a few things out. As far as he knew, he was the smartest being in the multiverse. He had been grievously injured multiple times, but using his intellect and whatever tools were around, Rick had always been able to find an escape.

After he took a few moments to think, Rick explained to Morty what was up.

“You remember what we were talking about before this happened?” At Morty’s blank stare, Rick continued: “When we were eating breakfast yesterday?” Morty nodded numbly, and as Rick carried on with his explanation, Morty’s expression became incrementally twisted.

In a flat, detached tone, Rick described the ‘special flask’ that he kept in the left pocket of his lab coat for ‘emergencies.’ The flask in his right pocket contained only whiskey - or vodka or whatever he felt like drinking at the time. The mixture in the left flask was a distilled, sweet-tasting liquid with a higher content of alcohol than absinthe. (It was harvested from a particular flower that only grew on a deserted planet in a certain galaxy far, far away.)

When faced with the prospect of discussing the particulars of his autodidacticism with his family, Rick had chosen to partake of this highly potent alcoholic substance. Although he knew full well the risks associated with its consumption - a stroke, temporary paralysis, or in this case a heart attack - Rick had chosen to face the risks head-on in the hopes of avoiding the discussion. It was not unlike the situation when he had turned himself into a pickle to get out of family therapy. 

Morty was so agitated that he began to shake. Rick could feel the tremors in his shoulder, and Morty shook so violently that Rick’s hand also began to shake. Rick observed as his grandson balled his hands into fists. His teeth chattered, and he pounded his head with his fists, his words barely intelligible through his sobs and stutters.

“I c-c-c-can’t b-b-believe you, Rick! W-w-wh-what w-w-were you th-thinking?!” He grabbed Rick’s hand and clenched it between his own, his fingers tracing the veins and liver spots that marred Rick’s skin. Morty took a deep, shuddering breath before he continued. “A-actually, I c-c-can believe it,” he murmured, his stutters fading with his hysteria. “After all, this is h-hardly the first time you’ve h-hurt me.”

Morty sniffled and spread open Rick’s hand, now tracing the lines of his palm. “Y-you know, at first I d-didn’t even want to go with you on these ‘adventures.’ But it’s n-not like you gave me a choice.” Rick looked at Morty vacantly as he poured his heart out.

“Time after time I’ve gone with you on one p-pointless, traumatic trip after another. And you want to know why? There’s no data you can measure, no g-groundbreaking discovery…” Morty paused momentarily to (once again) wipe snot on his sleeve. “There’re lots of ways you would describe it, but the bottom line is that I go with you because I love you.”

Morty blubbered and hiccuped and fell out of the stiff, hardback chair and into Rick’s arms.


	6. Chapter 6

At some point after his emotionally charged pronouncement, Morty fell asleep in Rick’s arms. He was a skinny kid - he’d weigh less than 100 pounds soaking wet - but in his state the slightest pressure on Rick’s body was agonizing. He clung to Morty in spite of the pain and awkwardly eased himself out of the bed.

Rick fluffed the pillow under Morty’s head and started to search the room for his labcoat. He had not wanted to be taken to the hospital in the first place, but he would find a way out, as he always did. Rick moved sluggishly around the room, considerate of Morty and slowed down by pain.

He found his coat neatly folded on the back of the toilet, of all places. There was no rational explanation and frankly, Rick didn’t give a shit. The air in the room felt cold, so Rick quickly put the coat on and fastened every button. The puke-green gown he’d been given was hideous, and the loose tie at the top did little to cover his asscheeks. (He didn’t want to stop and ponder why he wasn’t wearing underwear.)

Rick reached into the left pocket of the labcoat and felt for the small stitch in its lining. He found the stitch and tugged it until it ripped, exposing a tiny capped syringe. Rick sighed with relief and went to check on Morty. The poor boy was snoring, wiped out from the mental strain of the day’s events. Rick felt a brief twinge of guilt, but it passed as he sat down in the chair.

Their roles reversed, Rick took advantage of Morty’s unconsciousness to closely scrutinize him. Physically, he resembled Jerry far more than Beth. Psychologically and intellectually, however, he definitely took after _los Sánchez_. The many years Rick had sequestered himself from his family had deeply wounded them all.

Whether he knew it or not, Morty was the one who had been hurt the most. _”Give me the child until he is seven, and I will give you the man.”_ Rick couldn’t remember who had said it first - either some medieval priest or ancient Greek philosopher - but whoever it was, he was clearly a dumbass.

The first several years of a child’s life were undeniably powerful, and the experiences of those years certainly helped to shape the person they would become. When he first re-entered his family’s lives, Morty had been a wuss. Cowardly, whiny, weak, pathetic - basically a mini-Jerry. Under just 1 ½ years of Rick’s tutelage, Morty was confident and focused. (Granted, he was now a smartass and could be manipulative, but Rick took the good with the not-so-good in stride.)

The fact that Morty hadn’t realized that a little thing like a heart attack was the least likely thing to kill him disappointed Rick. However, his grandson’s obvious concern for him and the verbal affirmation of his love pleased and fascinated him. He was never one for melodrama, but in this case, he’d give Morty a pass. He was, after all, the dearest person in his life.

With that thought in mind, Rick uncapped the syringe and jabbed it into his chest. It hurt like a bitch, but he felt that, after the torment he’d put his family (i.e. Morty) through, he deserved it. He slowly stood on trembling legs as he clung to the bed’s side rail. After brushing a hand through Morty’s lank, disheveled hair, Rick found the pulse point in his neck.

He hesitated only a moment, murmuring a faint apology before he gently injected the syringe into Morty's carotid artery.


	7. Chapter 7

Morty regained consciousness in his own bed, cold and pale and feeling like he’d been hit with a bag full of bricks. The first thing he noticed was that he wasn’t alone. Rick sat in the chair at his desk, his mouth turned down and his brow furrowed in concentration. He looked perfectly fine. The sight was enough to bring tears to Morty’s eyes. He figured that he must have cried more in the last 48 hours than he had in years.

He cried silently until Rick turned to look at him. His dour expression transformed into a beaming smile so bright it almost hurt Morty’s eyes. In quick succession Rick stood up, crossed the room, and sat on the edge of the bed. “Good, you’re awake. Why are you crying? Are you in pain?”

Rick held Morty’s face between his hands. His thumbs brushed away tears and he looked into the boy’s eyes intently. “Your pupils are normal; that’s a good sign. So tell me,” Rick said as he pulled down Morty’s eyelids to inspect the whites. “Why were you crying?”

Morty pulled out of his grandfather’s grasp. “Are you serious, Rick? I was crying because I thought you were going to _die_! Because you’d rather take the risk of causing permanent damage or killing yourself to talking to your family about something that matters. Isn’t that right? You’d rather die than admit that you’re only human, and you have weaknesses like everybody else!”

They sat staring at one another in a silence that stretched on until it became awkward. Rick yawned and burped. He struck Morty on the side of the head, which resulted in a pained yelp and cry of “Damn it, Rick!” He glared at him balefully and rubbed the spot where Rick’s fist had landed. He felt the start of a knot forming, and imagined the skin would soon be black and blue. Nice.

Rick yawned and rolled his eyes. “It’s not that I don’t - _urp_ \- appreciate your concern, Morty. I - _urp_ \- really do. But you have to remember something, kiddo.” He rubbed the bruise he’d left on Morty’s temple, moving his fingers in a slow, clockwise motion. “You have to - _urp_ \- remember that your grandpa’s basically divine.”

Morty sighed and nodded. “Whatever you say, Rick.” He touched the side of his neck and grazed the microscopic hole made by the needle. “I doubt you’ll tell me, but what did you do to me? How did we get out of the hospital?”

Rick narrowed his eyes. “How the fuck do you know I did something to you?”  


“I know because I feel the pinprick, Rick. My neck hurts a little bit, which is how I found it,” Morty explained. “It itches, too. I might be having a reaction to whatever it is - so what was it?”

“It was my blood, Morty. Look I know - _urp_ \- it may sound fucked up, but you were - _urp_ \- the only one who can help me. You can - _urp_ \- get me out of any situation. It’s because - _urp_ \- we share a **bond** , Morty. You and me, we’re cut from the same cloth. You can do anything - _urp_ \- I can, Morty! Or if you can’t now, then you’ll be able to someday.

“It’s you and me, Morty, forever and always. Forever and - _urp_ \- ever, amen. Don’t get bogged down in the - _urp_ \- details, Morty. All that matters is that I’m outta there and - _urp_ \- we’re all OK, Morty! What do you think about that, Morty?”

In response to Rick’s mania, Morty yawned and lay back down. 

“I think you’re drunk, as usual. I also think it’s way too early for this shit, Rick. There are at least a few hours left until daylight, and I think I’m going back to sleep. Is that OK with you?”

When there was no answer, Morty opened his eyes to check on him.

Rick had passed out, his head on his knees. He tottered precariously close to the edge of the bed. Morty shook with silent laughter and carefully rearranged Rick until they were lying (more or less) side by side. The bed had a twin frame, but was still a tight fit. Rick's long legs hung over the end, and his loafers dangled from his feet. He had drool and dried barf caked to his mouth, and he had begun to snore.

Morty resigned himself to a restless doze. He turned toward Rick and wrapped a hand around his wrist, his thumb gently pressed against his radius. Despite Rick's snoring, the steady thump of his pulse lulled Morty to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks. Thanks to everyone who read, commented, and/or left kudos. I know this ending will seem too abrupt/anticlimactic for some readers. I never intended it to be a multi-chapter fic, but hopefully it at least has the feel of an episode. Keep in mind that the main reason I started writing it in the first place was to alleviate the anxiety and grief of losing a loved one.
> 
> Thanks again! ✌


End file.
